


Passion, Tamed

by Los_Gwilwileth



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Homeless, Amnesia, Artist Steve Rogers, Caretaking, Cuddling & Snuggling, Disapproving Friends, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mute James "Bucky" Barnes, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Stucky Big Bang 2016
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-11 13:16:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7894063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Los_Gwilwileth/pseuds/Los_Gwilwileth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve Rogers has the kind of life that everyone wants- good job, good income, a place without mysterious stains on the roof. But when he finds a mute, amnesiac man in the alley beside his apartment complex, his life turns into a series of lies about adopting a puppy (and by puppy, he means the stranger in the alley). Steve does his best to manage Bucky and a furry friend, while at the same time juggling work and the realisation that he may be falling for a man he rescued from the streets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Passion, Tamed

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from a quote by Lynn Abbott, "Patience is passion tamed." Art by me [HERE](http://los-gwilwileth.tumblr.com/post/149595115193/self-made-art-for-my-stucky-big-bang-2016-fic)
> 
> My computer is glitching and I am getting it fixed, so, although the story is complete, I will have to upload the rest in a couple of days.
> 
> Many thanks for any feedback - it gives me the utmost joy.

The door is jammed.

_Again._

Dejected, Steve trudges his way through the dirty slush that covers the pavement and enters the ammonia stink of the small side alley, jamming his frozen fingers against his slightly less frozen neck to get the blood flowing again. He’s just about to reach for the knob of the side door when a rustle reaches his ears. Ignoring every cheesy jump-scare alarm going off inside his head, he turns around and peers at the small mountain of black binbags heaped on the stained concrete.

He’s always had a soft spot for animals, even though cats are walking balls of fluffy allergies, and the thought of leaving some poor animal to freeze in the New York winter is enough to make him turn around. Cautiously, he creeps towards the rubbish pile, scanning for any sign of life. The rustle comes again, louder, and he spins around, trying to pinpoint the sound.

The snarling, stinking ball of ragged fury that lunges at him makes him backpeddle so fast that he skids on the wet stone and lands on his ass, swearing and wriggling backwards to get away from the figure squatting just a few feet away. He tenses, getting ready to scramble away as fast as he can, when his brain registers that the body in front of him isn’t attacking him.

Out of pure curiosity, he looks up and studies the man- no, boy, in front of him. Long, matted dark hair, cheekbones too angular and sunken to be natural, and tumultuous grey-blue eyes that pierce through to his soul like a child’s cry in a winter gale stare at him for several too-long moments, before the boy whirls away and disappears down the alley.  
His heart still pounding, he speeds towards the side door, craning his head to see if the boy will reappear. Once the door is unlocked and he is safely inside, he leans against the wall and takes several deep breaths before heading up to his apartment.

The next day, he leaves work as usual, but breaks from his routine to buy several sandwiches in plastic containers, as well as some pieces of fruit and a small bar of chocolate. The cashier smiles at him and turns away from the counter for a moment, before coming back with two paper bags emanating a delicious smell. “Don’t tell my boss,” she says, with a conspiratorial wink, “But you look like you need a good meal. On the house.”  
Steve blushes and protests futilely, before paying for the rest of the items and walking out of the store. The frosty air nips at his exposed skin as he hurries home, a reminder that he needs to stock up on every cold medicine known to man to prepare himself for the coming winter.

He uses the side door again, just in case the main door is still stuck, and dumps the bag of supplies on the ground near the ever-present trash pile. “For you.” He whispers, then dashes inside and slams the door.

He fancies that he saw a grimy hand reaching for the bag just before he closed the door.

The next day, when he again leaves a bag of food in the alley, it is untouched in the morning. When he returns home in the afternoon, the contents of the bag are strewn across the alley and rats scramble away from their feast as his feet approach. The next bag that he leaves is treated in much the same way, as is the next. 

He tells himself that the boy in the alley has probably gone to another, warmer part of the city as the temperature plunges.

That night, his dreams are snow and ice and a cold, blue, hand that reaches out to him, seeking, questing, but Steve has nothing to give the hand except a pitiful apology that will not keep its owner from the merciless embrace of Death.

A week later, it’s -5 degrees outside and Steve is starting to seriously consider moving into his freezer, which might actually be warmer than the frozen hellscape that is masquerading as Brooklyn in January. Contemplating cold, cramped spaces versus colder, open spaces, he barely recognizes his feet taking him down the side alley until he stops suddenly, brain registering that the ground underneath him is soft. Concrete isn’t meant to be soft. When he looks down, three thoughts occur to him:

 _I just stepped on a body._

_It’s that homeless boy’s body._

_What if he’s dead and the police find my DNA on him or something and then they’ll think I killed him and they’ll lock me up for the rest of my life fuck fuck fuck_

Fuelled by a desperate desire to not be framed as a murder, he rolls the boy’s body over and presses his fingers on his pulse point. And waits. And waits. Just when he is contemplating kidnapping another homeless guy and torturing/bribing him into hiding the body, he feels a faint flutter under his fingertips. Now he knows the guy is (barely) alive, he should call an ambulance. But another, bigger part of him, the part that would protest until he was blue in the face that he didn’t need to go to hospital when he was running a fever so high you could fry an egg on his forehead, forces him to grab the boy under the armpits and drag him into Steve’s apartment. Ten minutes, some swearing that would make a sailor blush, and one wheeze away from passing out on the carpet, Steve manages to haul the boy into his apartment and onto the couch. After that, it’s a simple matter of frantically googling _‘how to treat hypothermia’_ and freaking out over the fact that that there is a complete stranger passed out/possibly taking his last breaths on the couch of Steven Rogers, He Who Hath Been Blessed With the Gift of Eternal Shitty Luck.

With the stranger rugged up on the couch, Steve turns to his tried-and-true method of stress relief: baking. He decides on buckeyes today, and soon is lost in the rhythm of cooking. He freezes when he hears a low growl behind him, then a bony hand reaches over his shoulder to snag a freshly-made treat. Then he is shoved bodily out of the way as the stranger falls upon the buckeyes as if he hadn’t eaten in days. Remembering that one of the ways to treat hypothermia is warm food and drink, he retreats from the counter to heat up a bowl of canned chicken and corn soup. When the soup is heated through, the frantic chewing stops, and tentatively approaches the stranger, bowl held in front of him like an offering. The man whips his head around to face Steve, then grabs the bowl and brings it to his face, slurping messily. Steve prays that _unremovable stains that look suspiciously like vomit_ are going to be the next big trend in decorating kitchen floors.

Less than a minute later, the soup is gone and the bowl drops to the floor, shattering instantly. The stranger follows immediately after, showing his pleasure at being warm and fed by passing out on the floor with an obnoxious snore. After heaving the stranger back onto the couch and covering him with a blanket, he goes to deal with the disaster zone that was once known as his kitchen. There are no buckeyes left on the trays where he left them to set and no soup in the bowl either, and Steve has to take a moment to process that fact, because _he made 48 buckeyes and the stranger ate them all and still had room for a 22 oz. can of soup, what the fuck._

Evidently, shitty luck also means that when Steve looks in the fridge, there is nothing except something that resembles the corpse of the vegetable gremlin, a bottle of tomato sauce, and three ‘organic duck eggs from Lucky Farms’. He immediately blames the hipster ghosts of kale smoothies past, present, and quinoa-infused future for that purchase. After disposing of the gremlin, he makes himself _pizza au faux_ (toasted gluten free bread, smothered in tomato sauce with a fried waterfowl egg on top) and has a nap. Because he is an adult, and adults deal with unexpected events like hollow-legged, house-invading strangers by sleeping and then praying that the problem was just a dream before opening their eyes.

It doesn’t work. When Steve wakes up, the stranger is still on his sofa, curled up with both hands clasped over his stomach, alternating between making a strange sort of whine/whimper and glowering at Steve. It takes him seconds to realise the problem. The stranger’s stomach must be unused to food, so the rich food he had eaten combined with the quantity must have given him a horrific stomachache. Sighing, he fetches the Pepto-Bismol from the cupboard and a spoon, before pouring out a dose and offering the stranger the medicine. The stranger (he should really find out his name) stared at the fluorescent liquid in horror, then pressed himself against the back of the couch as Steve approached, spoon held before him like a weapon. After a tense standoff which involved much growling and snarling (the stranger) and gentle coaxing (Steve), it became clear that the stranger was not going to take his medicine. 

So Steve tried a different tactic. He raised the spoon to his mouth, grinned, and took a small sip of Pepto-Bismol, making exaggerated sounds of enjoyment, trying not to let his face screw up at the taste. Then he offered the spoon again. This time, the stranger did accept, leaning forward to lick the medicine off the spoon. . .only to spit it back out again, lightly seasoning Steve’s face and clothes with pink dots of Pepto-Bismol.

Steve rolls his eyes and turns on his heel to run the stranger a hot bath, for both cleanliness and the easing of cramps. When the tub is full, he herds the stranger into the bathroom, where Steve’s guest promptly sits down on the floor and stares at the steaming water. “Go on.” He says, gesturing to the bath, but the stranger doesn’t move. Remembering the Pepto-Bismol incident, he huffs and sheds his clothes, climbing into the bath with the intent to get out as soon as the stranger begins to undress. What he doesn’t expect is the stranger jumping into the bath fully clothed, flailing about like a cat. When the stranger finally settles, Steve sits up and reaches for the stranger’s clothing, encountering no resistance other than a weak growl. When Steve pulls off the stranger’s top, he stops. And stares. Because the stranger’s left arm is completely gone, ending at the armpit, and a thick web of scarring covers the stump.

Ignoring his instinctive _I dragged him into my apartment and didn’t realise his arm was gone, holy shit_ thought, he pulls off the filthy clothing and dumps it on the floor. The trousers are trickier. He manages to awkwardly pull them down an inch or so before the stranger decides to be helpful and topple forward, resulting in his head cracking on Steve’s chest and a hand swiping far too close to his junk in an attempt to regain its owner’s balance. Winded and more than a little pissed, he went about his task of seeing whether he could restore some sense of cleanliness to the stranger.

Steve’s thoughts have gone from _Sweet Dreams_ to _Killing Strangers_ over the course of the day, and are now approaching _Irresponsible Hate Anthem_ levels. After a bathroom scene that a critic would call ‘intensely homoerotic’ and he would call ‘I’m basically molesting a nonverbal stranger, help’, he realises that something is missing in the bathroom. Towels. Leaving a snail trail of greyish, soapy water behind him, he wanders to the linen closet and grabs a couple to take back to the bathroom. Which, of course is now empty. It doesn’t take Sherlock to figure out where the stranger has gone-there’s an incriminating line of soggy puddles leading out of the bathroom...and into his bedroom. The stranger is sprawled out face-down on Steve’s bed, the wet duvet creating a halo effect round his body as the moisture from the bath trickles off him and onto it.

He sighs. _Nothing beats a random person’s pubic hair on your bed on a Tuesday evening._ He drapes a blanket over the stranger and begins to clean up the bathroom.

The next morning, he wakes up to chaos. There is a strange crunching sound coming from the kitchen, the bathroom tap is somehow spraying water vertically, and there is a suspiciously ammonia-smelling puddle on the tile floor. All of this combines with the grumpiness of having to sleep on the couch to create a rather pissed off Steve. After turning off the tap and mopping the floor, he goes to investigate the kitchen. Cap’n Crunch is scattered across the floor, and the stranger is now shoving handfuls of cornflakes into his mouth. As if to spite him, the stranger turns and maintains eye contact as he drinks tomato sauce out of the bottle.

Steve flees.

He knows that logically, he should kick the stranger out, so that he can go to work and not worry about his house looking like the aftermath of an episode of Mythbusters when he comes home. But the larger, less logical side of his brain demands that he at least give the stranger a place to crash, given his apparent slightly traumatised state. Besides, the homeless shelters around here are pretty shit and usually overcrowded.

He takes a deep breath before dialling Natasha. “Good morning.” She says. “Is there a reason why you are calling me this early?” He hesitates before replying “erm, yes. I may have adopted a puppy yesterday.”

“I shall suspend my disbelief and ask what his name is.”

“His name is-“ _fuck think of something quick_ “-Buckeye.”

“Ah. Bucky is such a cute name! Will you let me see him?”

“Well, that’s the problem. He’s really shy and afraid of people. I was wondering if I could have a week off work to get him used to everything?”

“Done. But you will have to do some work at home, the new run of _The Mark of Stark_ is coming out soon.”

“The magazine has a terrible name. Can’t we change it?”

“You pop the Bossman’s ego, and then you can change it. To _pet peeves that Stark Industries has created this month_.”

“His ego is unpoppable. We should make balloons out of it. We’ll make a killing. Can you imagine it? The world’s first ethically produced, sustainable, unpoppable balloons.”

Natasha hangs up with a snort. He’s glad that he caught her in a good mood –Natasha in full boss mode is enough to terrify even the bravest of men. But now that the call is over, he can hear the sound of something fragile meeting its doom on ceramic tile. Right. _SuperNanny_ mode activated.

A Jackson Pollock of tomato sauce on the fridge is the first thing that greets him. He has to call the stranger something, and Bucky really is a much better name than Buckeye, which sounds like a pirate – is bashing a can against the wall, trying in vain to get at the food inside. Grabbing the can opener, he approaches, and in one fell swoop, snatches the can away. That’s what he attempts, anyway. In reality, Bucky is much stronger than Steve when it comes to tinned pear tug-o’-war. Thus, he lands comically on his backside, Cap’n Crunch scattering everywhere as a flower of tomato sauce appears on his thigh. Abandoning Bucky to his attempts to create a new window in his apartment, he grabs another can (peaches, this time) and pours it into a bowl.

Bucky’s highly tuned food radar alerts him to the appearance of said bowl, and Steve leaves him to devour it. Cutlery is an afterthought at this point, as Bucky would probably throw it on the floor. At this point, he’s getting an understanding for Bucky’s thoughts, the gist of it being: if it isn’t edible, it’s not worth my time. Apparently sated, Bucky retires back to Steve’s bed for a nap. He can already feel the rage building inside him. _Calm. Clean up, then breakfast. Calm._

After a rather disappointing breakfast, a hasty google of _how to potty train your toddler_ , and the addition of some pretty faux bloodstains to go along with the chicken soup vomit stains on the kitchen floor, he checks in on Bucky. He’s snoring soundly, so Steve seizes the chance to go out to get groceries.

Returning home after surviving the invasion of the new-age, heath conscious, “no lasers near my broccoli” mothers, trailed by children suckling on cabbage pops or whatever was being touted as the next new brain food, he’s fairly sure that ‘murder’ is now higher on his list of priorities than it was before. Thankfully, Bucky is still blissfully asleep on Steve’s bed, though unfortunately still nude and spreading his pubic (and chest, and body, and butt) hairs all over his lovely bed.

At this point Bucky wakes up and glares at Steve. _Feed me, human_ his expression says. Steve backs away to do his bidding. After another meal, Bucky decides to explore. Which apparently means rubbing his butt against the couch cushions with a face of pure delight. 

Murder moves up three levels on his list of priorities.

Resigning himself to draping a rug over the couch next time, he turns on the television. Martha Stewart is whipping spinach and some pale orange liquid together while a soap star looks on with a vaguely horrified expression. Not Food Network, then. On Fox, a man in a business suit is being humped by a seal at Seaworld. Steve quickly changes the channel, but there are some things that cannot be unseen. He settles on a showing of The Chronicles of Narnia: Prince Caspian, which appears to attract Bucky’s attention as he watches the television intently. Steve can’t help but notice Bucky’s eerie resemblance to Prince Caspian. 

“You look almost like him, don’t you?” He comments. Bucky is engrossed in a scab on his left foot, and does not reply. 

“Are you enjoying the movie?” He tries next. Still no answer.

‘I will clothe you.” He finally threatens, even though he’s pretty sure that, skinny though he is, Bucky would rip right out of his shirts (and pants) a la the Hulk.

Bucky has moved, but only to give his bicep a scratch. He stares at Steve, his expression challenging. Evidently, Bucky is quite happy with his current status as a nudist. He looks away and gets up to search for his phone. He isn’t sure what Bucky’s mental state is, but right now he’s going with ‘probably at least a little fucked up’.

Sam picks up on the second ring. “What can I do for you, Steve-O?” 

“I hate that nickname and also the naked stranger on my couch.”

Sam makes a quizzical sound. “You’re not exactly the nameless hook-up type, Steve.”  
He sighs. _Great way to start a conversation_. “Um. I. Ah. Mayhaverescuedahomelessguy.” 

“Hey. Slow down there. Homeless what?” Sam chides.

“I came home a couple days ago and found a homeless guy almost dead in the alley. I took him into my apartment and defrosted him. He has no idea how to do basic things and he won’t leave.”

“Can I come over?”

“I guess?”

“See you!” Sam chirps, and hangs up. As a counsellor for the local high school, Steve’s thinking that he might be the best person try and communicate with Bucky. He’s willing to bet that Bucky will need therapy. You don’t get your arm lopped off and become mute without at least a little bit of trauma.

When Sam finally knocks on the door, Bucky panics. He sprints off to Steve’s room like the devil’s chasing him, and he’s torn between comforting Bucky and answering the door.

He answers the door.

Sam comes in, shucking his boots and wandering into the living room. “So, where’s your mystery guest?”  
Steve gestures to the bedroom, and Sam cocks an eyebrow. “Not like that.” He mutters, a flush spreading over his cheeks. Bucky’s burritoed himself into the duvet and is sniffing Steve’s pillow with a discomforting intensity. When he notices Sam, his eyes go wide, head darting back and forth between them.

“Easy there.” Sam soothes, raising his hands and stepping towards the bed. An acrid smell permeates the air, and, heedless of the mess, Steve rushes forward and sits down on the bed. Bucky leaps for him, arms wrapping around his chest and dragging him down into the nest of blankets. He stays like that, face buried in Steve’s chest. The ammonia smell is stronger and Steve should be disgusted, but he doesn’t care. All he knows is that Bucky needs him, trusts him.

From his position in the doorway, Sam tries again. “My name’s Sam. It’s ok, I won’t hurt you. Can you tell me your name? Anything?” Bucky doesn’t reply, but another shiver of tension goes through him. His muscles are like steel wire beneath his skin, ready to fight or flee. Ragged nails sink into his chest. “He doesn’t speak. Or, well, he hasn’t, at least not yet.”

Sam nods. “I don’t suppose you know what happened to his arm or where he’s from?” Steve shakes his head. He doesn’t know anything about Bucky. He’s not even sure how old he is. “I don’t know anything, Sam. Age, whether he’s from the USA or not. I’ve been calling him Bucky, though. He likes buckeyes, hence the name.”

“Have you tried giving him a piece of paper and a pen?” Sam asks, and Steve mentally smacks himself in the face for his stupidity. “In the kitchen”, he tells Sam, since Bucky seems to have morphed into the Incredible Human Octopus and will not let him go.

When Sam returns, Bucky appears less wary, although he’s still clutching onto Steve for dear life. When confronted by the pen, Bucky hesitantly picks it up and stares at it. He doesn’t make any move towards the paper though. His eyes are a tumult of emotions, and Steve can’t read them. He feels helpless, useless. He wants to be able to soothe Bucky’s secrets, coax them unafraid into the light. He is a blind person interpreting sign language, guessing the answers to a mystery.

Finally, Bucky puts down the pen. The paper is still pristine. Steve picks it up, writes _what is your name?_ Bucky stares, again. Like he can see the words but not understand them. Sam’s soft voice breaks the silence. “Steve, can I talk with you? In the kitchen.”

And so he ignores Bucky’s empty gaze and wriggles off the bed. He shouldn’t leave. He should stay here. Sam is pacing the kitchen, hands clasped behind his back. He doesn’t even look at Steve when he speaks. “I don’t know, Steve. I think he’s an immigrant. Illegal, probably. He should...he should be sent back home. Wherever home is. Or was.”

“Can’t we fill out forms? Get him to stay here? Dammit, Sam, this boy can’t speak, doesn’t know how to write, and is so terrified of strangers that he pisses himself when they come near!” He’s almost shouting at the end, cheeks ruddy and tears beading in the corners of his eyes. He’s known a stranger for two days and already he cares about him too much. He shouldn’t care. There are so many homeless people out there. He’s walked past them every day, in streets, subways, stations. He’s tossed them a quarter once or twice, when there been change in his hand from a recent purchase.

He shouldn’t care. The faces of the homeless never change. Despondent, trodden on, defeated. A quarter, a penny, a half dollar, a dime. It doesn’t matter how much lands in there hat or battered guitar case. They know they’ll never get enough. A meal, hot if today’s donors are generous. Water from a filthy public sink. Showers in the same grimy public bathroom block. Perhaps a bribe to sleep under an awning, away from the cold. Or else all thrown away on drink and drugs, just to keep a body warm for one more night. 

He shouldn’t care. The stranger – _Bucky_ , has ruined his neatly ordered life. Now there are another man’s hairs on his pillow and stains on his kitchen floor from food eaten too fast, too hungry to care, because the next meal might come tomorrow or the next day or never. He doesn’t know this man, and he shouldn’t care like this.

But Steve’s stupid too-big heart has gone and swallowed Bucky whole. It’s engulfed Bucky and he can’t wrench them apart. A fragment of a voice from his past drifts through his head, the therapist speaking, _“vulnerable children. . .death at such a young age. . .changes the mind. . .care for others more than themselves. . .feel responsible for their death. . .projection. . .seek to take care of others because they don’t want the same thing to happen to others.”_

“Calm down.” It’s Sam’s voice that breaks through the fugue in his head. Through the _what-ifs_ and the _whys_ and the _why nots_. “I think he’s suffering from some type of amnesia. The muteness might be an expression of trauma. Not surprising, though, considering the fact that he’s lost an arm. Does he always go into your bedroom if he feels scared?”

“I don’t know.” He replies, voice wobbling, threatening tears. He hates that. He feels like a child again, fighting the logical reasoning of an adult with the simple and unwavering disbelief and denial of youth. “But he seems to like my bedroom. Hell, it might as well be his bedroom , the way he’s overtaken it.”

“I think your bedroom has become his ‘safe space’. He’s latched onto you as a person he can trust- or at least thinks he can trust.” Sam continues on like he hasn’t noticed Steve’s tear-swollen face. “Stockholm syndrome?”

Sam walks to the door, tugging on footwear and opening the door. “It could turn into. Be careful.” He replies to Steve’s question. “Let me think about this. I’ll talk to you later.” He exits, Steve’s cry of “Please don’t tell anyone!” following him down the stairs.

He doesn’t know why Sam is so cold. Maybe he’ll come around. Or maybe he’s seen so many broken people that he doesn’t want to fix them anymore. Steve should care, but he doesn’t. Sam probably knows too much, working at the high school. All the petty lies and concerns and the deep secrets that cut to the bone and the monsters under the bed. But he wouldn’t know. 

Two days later, life has settled into a routine. Get up, feed Bucky, do a little bit of work while Bucky watches television, food, bath, food. Rinse and repeat. It’s like taking care of a child, he realises. Around the clock care, watching for a mouth chewing on his computer cord or an accident on the floor. By the time he finishes tonight’s chicken stir fry, he’s exhausted. His back aches from sleeping on the couch (Bucky has still not relinquished his bedroom) and his work productivity is currently located somewhere in the negative numbers. Tonight, he is going to take drastic action. Tonight, he is going to reclaim his bed.

When Bucky finally wanders into his bedroom, Steve quickly changes into boxers and a worn shirt. Then he proceeds to march into his bedroom and sit down on the bed. Bucky doesn’t move from his position beneath the sheets. Surprised at this nonreaction, Steve likewise tucks himself under the covers and shoves Bucky with an elbow. His ungrateful bedmate stubbornly refuses to shift from his position, which, inexplicably, manages to cover the entire bed despite it being a queen size. Refusing to give up, he drapes himself over Bucky’s left side. It’s somewhat comfortable, mostly due to the fact that Bucky’s left arm is not in the way. Bucky lets out a sort of snort at this, but doesn’t move.

Steve is only slightly worried at how natural this feels.

He wakes up in the morning to find himself sandwiched between the bed and Bucky, who is snoring lightly as the sun pokes its fingers through the curtains to caress the bed and its occupants. The pressing need to carry out the process known as breathing drives him to crawl out from under his human blanket, which promptly rolls over and gropes for him. Steve allows himself to be dragged back for cuddles, even though he should make breakfast. And catch up on his work. He’s pretty sure that if work was a pet, he’d be strung up by the neck in a courthouse by the jury, so numerous would the claims of neglect be.

At ten in the morning, there are pancakes on the stove as Bucky watches them intensely. He’s still unsure as to why Bucky trusts him so completely. It’s like holding a dragon on a leash made of thread; he doesn’t know why such a creature would stay with him when it could easily break free to go where it wants. Bucky seems to be improving, though. He knows how to use the toilet, and wash. Sam hasn’t called. Perhaps the monsters under the bed have eaten him at last.

Steve shakes his head, as if to dispel the gloomy thought. The pancakes are ready to be flipped, and he does so to avoid them burning. On a whim, he reaches out and covers Bucky’s hand with his own, before guiding Bucky through the turning of the rest of the batch. He lets Bucky do the last one on his own, though he steadies the pan to help him. Bucky seems inordinately pleased by this accomplishment, and a smile spreads across his face. It’s the first one Steve’s seen since he took Bucky in, and it makes Steve grin in response. They eat together at the table, syrup-drenched mouths beaming at each other across IKEA plastic.

Steve does manage to get some work done, but nowhere what he needs to catch up on. But really, who wants to write about the advantages of a Stark XtraLite wearable pedometer/watch/sleep cycle tracker when you have your phone? Or, horror of all horrors, an Apple Smart Watch? There’s only so many ways you can re-hash ‘It tells the time, counts how many steps you’ve taken, AND shows you how many hours of sleep you got. (Not enough hours. The answer is always not enough hours.)’ Either that or you give up on making it sound good and just bullet point the basics, before topping it off with BUY IT NOW in size thirty-six Comic Sans.

That night, snuggled up beside Bucky under clean sheets, he has a rather simple but profound realisation: He has reached that ultimate state of enlightenment- the state of not giving a single fuck about what people think of his life. He can shelter a stranger in his house. He can lie to his friends. It might not be healthy, but in this world, what isn’t? Comforted by this thought, he drifts off in minutes.

 

It’s the day of truth. He has to return to work, leaving Bucky alone in the apartment. He prepares sandwiches and leaves them in the kitchen under plastic wrap. He hopes a fire doesn’t break out, because Bucky’s going to be helpless. The television is left on, and Steve regrets the lost look Bucky gives him just before he closes the door.

When he arrives, Natasha gives him The Look. Steve is helpless before it and follows her into her office. She does nothing but raise her perfectly groomed eyebrows. “I lied.” He confesses, and then tells her everything. When he is finished, she shakes her head. “You’re in quite a pickle, aren’t you, Steven?”

The full name. Only used when one is not in a pickle, but involved in something that has gone pear-shaped, been immersed in boiling water and is now rapidly transforming into custard. “Don’t tell anyone.” He murmurs, the Child resurfacing. He can’t think of anything to say. He should say something bold, something vulgar. But silence seeps into the room and tangles with their gazes to form an uncomfortable tension.

“I...” His voice is crackly and soft, like an old radio wrapped in cotton. He sighs, and doesn’t attempt to talk again. There was nothing he could say. Never was anything he could say. Natasha blinks. “Are you planning on letting him stay?”

“Yes.” He replies. Bucky hasn’t done anything to warrant booting him out on the street- yet, and he’s reluctant to admit how his loneliness has eased since Bucky came into his life, He never was a very social person, the chief reason that he cited was that loud noises overwhelm him.

“You can call me if you need anything. Now you need to go catch up on all the work that you haven’t done.” Two dismissals from two people close to his heart. Two doors shut in his face. As he wanders back to his desk, he wonders what their reactions would be like if Bucky was his...love interest. Stranger in your house? Nothing to be alarmed about, just my lover. Stranger living in your house? Well, when you’re in love, you tend to move in with each other. Lover depending on you? Not Stockholm syndrome, but the first days when you are so in love that you can’t breathe without choking on the sheer joy of it. 

So maybe they might disagree that it was _Bucky_. Steve knows that Sam and Natasha, the closest people to him, want him to be safe. The military leaves you wary, with scars in places that you don’t want to see. The protectiveness never fades when you’ve had a comrade take a fatal wound, seen hell in bullets flying in a metal storm around you, waited to see if you would survive one more night. They’d be happier if he was in love with a white bread, milquetoast man, 9 to 5 job and a squeaky clean past.

But he isn’t. So maybe he’s the Clarice Starling to Bucky’s Hannibal (unlikely, since Bucky hasn’t tried to extract his liver with a fruit knife and turn it into some exotic Moroccan dish). Perhaps he’s the Bridget Jones to Bucky’s Mr Darcy (more likely, and besides, who hasn’t felt at least a little attracted to Colin Firth in a wet shirt?) Either way, he knows that Bucky is going to be staying with him in the immediate future, if only in an ‘acquaintance who shares my bed and apartment’ way rather than a romantic way.

Leaving at the end of the day brings with it a certain sense of dread. What if Bucky has climbed out the window and fled? What if he’s destroyed Steve’s apartment? What if one of his neighbours thinks that he’s keeping a sex slave? With these thoughts buzzing around his head, he makes a quick trip to the grocery store before heading back home. The pavements are slick with black ice and the street lamps cast eerie shadows on the ebon surface. He’s so engrossed in trying to keep his balance and not thinking about being attacked by a serial killer that the truck horn scares at least ten years off his lifespan.

Something darts across the road, probably the source of the trucker’s ire, and smashes into his legs. A leek escapes from one of his bags and tumbles onto the road, where it is promptly flattened by a passing motorcyclist. The commuter then flips him the bird as he zooms away.

A wet tongue licks apologizing as his face, which has narrowly avoided becoming close friends with the pavement. Blinking, a canine face comes into focus above him. The stray’s curly coat is matted with dirt, and a frayed piece of string is tied around its neck. There’s a small piece of paper on which someone has scrawled ‘ _Asshole_ ’ threaded onto the makeshift collar and leash. 

“Damn right.” He mutters, struggling to his feet and gathering his shopping. He begins walking, shivering at the chilly air, when the click of claws on pavement makes him stop. The stray dog is following him. Sighing as he resigns himself to a night of allergy-induced sneezing, he continues walking. Perhaps he has a knack for attracting strays.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are always welcome!


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